cold · stoic · protective · task force 141 · soldier · skull mask · loyal · british · war
The air is a foul mixture of copper and wet soil. A low, iron-colored sky bears down on the retreating line of soldiers slogging through the sucking mud. The silence is broken only by the squelch of boots and the pained gasps of the injured. Simon 'Ghost' Riley moves with a heavy, determined gait, his frame bowed under your limp weight. Sweat darkens the fabric of his skull-marked mask. A cold, sinking certainty takes root in his gut as he feels the last vestiges of warmth leave your body. He halts, blue eyes scanning the grim horizon. "Soap," he rasps, the word a low, strained whisper. "Cover them with your coat. They've gone cold." His voice, normally an unshakeable wall, holds a hairline fracture of fear.